Journal 18th November
Friday 18th November
Another glorious bright and sparkling heavy frost day, and the kitchen is full of gardeners and babies this morning, dog gleefully barking outside, cats eyeing it up with supercool disdain. The sage is complaining to his mum that I said the roots would start to come out in the hyacinth and there are none there yet. I feel like liar, and start hoping he'll forget about it for the four or five days it takes for it to happen, so I don't lose any more credibility. Time. Child time. Recuperation time. Time flying. Time dragging. Einstein only told the half of it.
The birthday skirt fits and looks really well on haircut mum, the baby, placid as ever, sleeps on the couch while we have tea and toast. So accommodating of her.
On this morning's walk, I find where the duck eggs may be, and why Zinga was scaling the ancient letter box oak this morning. The duck is nesting in the crown of it. Have the ultimate red eye photo of her - the skin all around her eye is dark coral red. Not the best camouflage in the world. I have a long wrapped up walk in the sparkling grass, crunching my way around the fairyland glisten of it. The cows on the road are mooing madly, heading for milking. I was up very early this morning and saw a big milk lorry going along the top road, painted black and white like a cow. It looked surreal against the rolling hills where there were actual black and white cows grazing, under a lilac sky. The moon, glowing like a bride, dancing over all the beauty.
Today I've lost that spaced out feeling and although I still feel delicate, my head is back to normal. More's the pity. Big treat of the day is Dr Hauschka's Blackthorn oil. Dr Hauschka, "Where science and spirit meet.
The Blackthorn oil smells divine, as does the floral wash, I can well believe that they are full of spirit, they certainly raise mine. Oils of blackthorn, birch, St John's Wort, geranium, rosemary and lavender. "Warming and Protecting. It's gorgeous.
Beautiful scents are fabulous for lifting the mood and general pampering. Trying new ones has the same effect as hearing new music.
After the afternoon walk, I find the urge to start painting overwhelming, so I do. It's over two years since I've painted, since my digital camera seduced me. It's lovely going back, but I feel stilted and need to loosen up. I've not to stand in one position for long, so watercolour is best. I want to paint the poem my friend sent me, to send to him. My first attempt is good in parts, but it's not right yet. I also do four small scenes based on the view from the skylight, then realise that I missed out a whole hill. Artistic license.
I wonder how I'll ever go back to my old life. Part of me knows. I won't.
What to do?
A decision for the New Year. Not now. Not these six healing weeks. No need to think about anything than the moment. Not yet.
Perhaps not ever.
There is a cherry tree in the garden, it's bark is like spun silk, and peels in curls leaving bands of amber, olive green, burnt orange and lime. It's so fabulous, and smooth to the touch. It looks like bobbins of silk thread. Reels of satin ribbon. I'll have to find out what type it is exactly. Such a beautiful garden, I'm getting to know it's cold spots and long sunshine walks, secret paths and forgotten icy chambers in amongst the sun-filled beech hedge. On sunny mornings, the sun behind it, it looks like it's made of amber. Full of light and ancient mystery. There is a maze mown into the long grass. I've only managed the outer circle so far, two days ago. Got a bit tired so haven't tried it since.
But it's important to have goals.
Have been off pain killers for two days now. Although I was never actually in any pain at any time, who needs them in all of this glory?
Postie was late today. They leave their doors open out here, he just opens them and flings the post in the door.
I have a quadruple cat nap this afternoon, Nut, Nootka, Cherry and Zinga all join me. We are a snoozing purring mound of repose. There's a lot to learn from cats.
Am on my fourth book now, 'Labyrinth', which is okay, and interspersing it with 'The Historian' on iPod, which isn't, but it's nice to have a story read to you, even if it is naff.
Busy busy busy.
Daily phone calls with my mum, taking turns each, are gentle and normal. No awkward silences or ancient rage. It's going to be fine. How could it not be. On a day like this?
I have been sent emails -including three from my daughter- photos of trees, a poem, a book, a chill-out tape, well wishing texts, invitations to come and stay, texts on the 7th - thinking of you, my chi gung group said they'd be sending me golden light between 7 and 7.15pm on the 8th, which I forgot about until they all suddenly come into my mind - 7.05pm. Take good care, beautiful cards and quotes, flowers galore. But what is it stinging in my ungrateful idiot mind?
Not one word from green eyes.
I'm surprised more than anything. And what do I do with that? I judge him of course. I hear myself saying 'I thought he was a nicer person than that'. 'What kind of person doesn't even say good luck?'
It takes me a day to consider maybe he has a life. Maybe he has integrity. Maybe he has learned in his life that love is responsibility, a burden to resent. He told me about his situation, ending it so emphatically with 'You can't let yourself get too involved', that I looked straight at him. I saw the pain in him as his shoulders slumped. His heart broken. Then he said, more gently, eyes cast down, 'It's difficult not to sometimes.'
So I understand. In the core of me. That green eyes is exhausted. And in sacrifice. Giving, forgetting how to receive. Watching, don't get involved. Beating himself up for being human. Holding it all in. Not letting anything in. It's exhausting. I know. Mirror.
I see him. That's what love is. That seeing. How he's forgotten how to receive. How safe it is right where he is. How it's so long since he let himself feel cherished he doesn't know how to let it in anymore. How he has no more energy to give. In all his nurturing, out of love, he protects by beating himself up, and not getting involved.
But it's difficult not to sometimes.